


Not The Hands That Kill

by You_Light_The_Sky



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Canon Divergence, Chinese Translation, Fanart has nudity, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Season 1 Spoilers, Translation Available, Wingfic, Winglock, mentions of drug use, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-22
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-04 02:51:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/You_Light_The_Sky/pseuds/You_Light_The_Sky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having wings does not make Sherlock Holmes a guardian angel, not in the way that John Watson is his. </p><p>(Note: Chinese and Russian translations & fanart now available)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not The Hands That Kill

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Руки, которые не убивают](https://archiveofourown.org/works/574526) by [Wintersnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wintersnow/pseuds/Wintersnow)



> Now with Chinese Translation. Special thanks to qinwuxin1978 for the wonderful work! Please register on her website if you'd like to read it.
> 
> Chinese translation of [ Main Story here](http://221dnet.211.30i.cn/bbs/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=2017&extra=page%3D) and [ extras here ](http://221dnet.211.30i.cn/bbs/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=2298&extra=&page=1)
> 
> FANART done by the talented WSLY. Her art is gorgeous, I honestly don't know how to repay her.
> 
> Notes: for emerald_embers on livejournal as a late entry into the five acts round six prompt organized by toestastegood. Thanks so much for the Charles/Erik fic! Title inspired by a chapter of the Fullmetal Alchemist manga.

To be wingless is to be nobody. Even Sherlock knows this when he is six years old, staring out of the window of their family’s limo, looking at the grubby looking, (naked, that’s what the slang dictates them to be) homeless that blend into the pavement and backdrop of street corners that they pass. They are the failures of society, Mycroft (wings the deepest black, lined with blue, that he’s ever seen) often tells him, and they are the ones who allowed their mental health and aspirations to dwindle into nothing, until their wings moulted and fell apart, leaving behind (disgusting) bare backs.

Sherlock shivers in the backseat when he thinks of this fate. He never wants it. His wings are beautiful, pure black like the shine of a raven’s feathers. They stretch down to his knees and Mycroft assures him that they will continue to grow until he is an adult, until he is ready to fly.

(He dreams of it, sometimes, of flying over London watching the city in its dark corners that whisper of mystery and puzzles, thinking that _this city is mine_ when he takes to the air.)

His wings are special, one of the few that are completely coloured. It distinguishes him from the other children (brainless, slow, all of them, why can’t they just _think?_ ) and he revels in being different (even if sometimes his chest feels a pang when they call him a freak, even if he sometimes grins at someone who isn’t there, at an empty space.) He has his wings, he has his mind and he has his brother and it is enough.

-

The first time he stretches his wings and takes to the sky, it is before his parents, his brother, have given their approval. Sherlock sneaks out of the mansion in the middle of the night and goes into the family grounds, deep into the grove of trees. He stares up at the winking stars, focusing on the empty black spaces in between. He’s not nervous yet his pulse is rushing ( _adrenaline, he’s excited, the way he is about a challenging puzzle.)_ He’s calculated everything, he knows he can do this; he is Sherlock Holmes after all.

And so he lets his wing unfurl, observes how they blend in with the darkness like a fresh coat of black paint. Sherlock lets them flap in two powerful waves and then...

...He’s a few inches off the ground, he feels his palms growing sweaty, the choked laughter escaping his lips and then he’s higher, higher than he’s ever been before, up above the tops of the trees, reaching upwards towards the spaces in between the stars like Icarus.

Sherlock is flying and it’s the most amazing thing he’s ever experienced in his ten years of life.

-

The Carl Powers case happens.

He’s frustrated. No one is listening to him, not even Mycroft and it hurts. They jeer at him. The officers, at first, try to treat him like another plebeian child. But when they are exposed to his manner and speech, they jeer in their own ways, flaunting their superiority. They ignore the facts, the evidence, everything and Sherlock hates them so much, he just wants to all to go away...

He starts running out into the field again, flapping his wings. His feet almost hover off the ground, the tips touching the blades of grass when suddenly Sherlock is falling. His face burning with scrapes and his joints are screaming with pain. The ground tastes unpleasant but Sherlock barely registers it. Instead he is stuck in a loop of endless thoughts. His mind palace is temporarily shattered, broken into a few shattered rooms, all echoing with the same question.

_What happened?_

_Insufficient data,_ he thinks, _need to perform several more trials in different environments. Test the hypothesis, carry out the procedure._

He tries again.

And again.

And again.

And every time...

...He falls.

It’s the first time Sherlock remembers crying and when he notices how ragged his wings have become, stained with dirt and pebbles, when he sees the line of feathers falling from them like tears, he does not try again.

-

Mycroft leaves for higher education. Sherlock has never forgiven him for the Carl Powers case so he doesn’t say goodbye, does not see his brother off.

More black feathers fall to the ground and Sherlock does not bother to pick them up this time.

-

University is a blur. All boredom with pointless lectures and the same boring professors forcing their dull and limited opinions upon masses of susceptible and stupid students. The same faces. The same personalities. Dull, dull, dull, until Sherlock stops pretending to be one of them, stops trying to integrate himself into society and just lists off everything he observes and sees, lets himself be hated.

It’s better to be alone. Everything else is transport, useless.

Yet the ache, the missing space, won’t go away. His wings are as immobile as ever, raining more feathers day by day. He realizes that he’s stopped looking forward to tomorrow. Everything is pointless. If this is life, than what is the point? The same thing, always, forever, he can’t deal with this, needs something new, something inspiring, needs to _think again,_ needs a case (but no, he thinks of Carl Powers, they won’t listen, they never listen and then—)

His roommate Sebastian introduces him to cocaine.

He is lost on the waves of euphoria so close to high of flying that he doesn’t stop. Everything fades away until he can’t see his wings anymore, only the formulas and details dancing in front of his eyes, only the _game._

_-_

His brother starts calling, trying to interfere. He ignores the calls. He doesn’t graduate, but its fine, because he’s smarter than a majority of the human race anyways. Sherlock has a trust fund. He decides to live off of that instead. There’s really no point in life unless he can feel the _game._

He wanders into London, searching for puzzles, is driven out of different flats for his drug use or his attitude or both. Most of the time it’s both.

One night, he is so lost in his high that he stumbles onto a crime scene, begins to rattle off all the deductions he can when he spies the bodies lying in the living room. The police are trying to pull him back, holding on to his arms and careful not to touch his decrepit looking wings (wings he hasn’t looked at in years) because its taboo to touch another person’s wings without permission.

One of them ( _married but the relationship is beginning to crumble, ambition to become the inspector, has a dog, could potentially become an alcoholic if pushed too far—_ ) sits Sherlock down in a police car and begins to yell at him for walking into jurisdiction of the yard, for being high on the scene, etcetera, etcetera. Sherlock has heard it all before and continues to shout at the man (what was his name again? Lawrence?) who the real culprit is.

He is knocked out and then taken home.

The next day, Sherlock is lying on the couch, suffering from withdrawal. He has run out of cocaine and is too exhausted to find his dealer. Everything is spinning, it hurts. He wants to roll over and drop down into nothingness. Wants to feel something again, the euphoria...

His head is pounding and Sherlock realizes that the ringing in his ears is not a hallucination but his doorbell. It’s annoying, but he makes no move to answer it (not Mycroft, obviously, as his brother would just get one of his minions to break down the door; not the landlord, he has a key; not his dealer, Sherlock makes sure that no one can tail him back to his residence.) They’ll go away eventually (predictably). He just wants to lie there in his chaotic mind.

The ringing doesn’t stop though. Sherlock is too weak to throw something out the window (the crash will chase them away, it usually does.)

Eventually his door is slammed open (so the idiot outside had finally figured out that Sherlock didn’t actually lock his door last night) and there is the same officer (wings white and stained grey from the bottom up) from the other night, glaring down at him with reluctance and pity. Normally such a stare would irk him, make him list the offender’s shameful secrets in public but he doesn’t care at the moment. Only wants his next fix.

The officer is saying something but Sherlock is hardly paying any attention, instead listing off all the chemical reactions he can think of with sodium when he hears, “...hate to admit it but you were bloody right about the murderer’s identity... We were, well, I was wondering what other opinions you might have of some other cases... once you sober up, of course...”

What’s-his-name is rambling onwards but it doesn’t matter because all Sherlock can hear is, _you were bloody right... you were bloody right... you were_ right, and he has shot up on the sofa, eyes alert and demanding the officer his best cases at once.

It’s the start of something and for the first time since Carl Powers, Sherlock feels like he could fly if he wanted to.

-

He doesn’t. But it hardly matters. He’s found something almost as good as flying. He finds cases and he solves them, they excite him, they make his whole world grow bright with spots of colour and brilliance and—

Sherlock pauses in front of the mirror one morning, frozen by the sight that he’s overlooked for the past few years. His wings.

They are drooping, resembling an old punch of feather dusters all tied together rather than the strong raven like wings they used to be before. He feels as if someone has torn them off of him, has a moment of pure fear (what if they keep moulting? What if they fall off? What if he becomes one of them, the naked, the lost in society, no, no, not Sherlock, he’s special, surely not—)

He stops using, reverts to nicotine patches.

Though he interacts regularly with his homeless network, takes care of them, he never stops viewing them as pawns in his web of information. He will not become like them.

To be wingless is to be nobody.

Sherlock Holmes is not nobody.

-

They (that is, Sally (green wings) and Anderson (pigeon wings)) call him new things besides freak. They call him the raven or the grim reaper. They call him a sadistic psychopath and future serial killer. They sometimes call him wingless (because he never flies on a case, they’ve never seen him try) and that’s when Sherlock’s countenance becomes lethal, when his words truly cut and his threats are true to their word.

No one dares to call him wingless again.

-

John Watson is an ex-army doctor invalided from either Afghanistan or Iraq (need more data), went to St. Bart’s for medical school, old acquaintance if not friend of Mike Stanford, mild-mannered, psychosomatic limp, likely shot in real life, a writer, older alcoholic brother who recently divorced (more data) and he is... wingless.

Sherlock’s first instinct is to treat Watson as one of his agents in the homeless network, a client and pawn. But then the information is processed in his brain, the images catch up to him and Sherlock realizes that John Watson can’t possibly be wingless. How can he be a qualified doctor if he was always wingless?

During Afghanistan then, Watson likely moulted after he was invalided, from depression.

Yet those eyes, the posture, the trembling hand which is not the result of PTSD but longs for adrenaline. Those are not the signs of a man who has given in. Watson is searching for an outlet, a reason to live again. Someone like that wouldn’t have moulted his wings off completely.

Torn apart? No. No one survives when their winged appendages are ripped from them. They have a few hours to live. Options include wing transplant (or slow death) but a living donor is required (dead donor wings will crumble as the victim passes on) and those are as rare as having five serial killers running through London in one day.

Hidden then. This explains the horrid and plain sense of clothing. The jumpy was bulky, likely covering whatever wings that Watson has. But why? It’s more advantageous for Watson to have his wings out, better to find other potential flatmates to live with.

Need more data.

-

He watches when Sally raises an eyebrow at Watson’s bare back when they enter the crime scene for the fourth suicide. He sees Anderson’s grimace of disgust, Lestrade’s wide eyes. He waits for a reaction.

But Watson just carries on, a mild expression of curiosity (and then awe when he praises Sherlock, so genuinely, so openly) on his face.

It makes Sherlock want to shout at the all of Scotland Yard to turn their eyes down in shame, to tell them that they are unworthy of _looking_ at this man who is just as winged as they are, only hiding it.

(Sherlock wants to desperately to ask _why_ , but no, not yet. He needs to wait for the perfect moment...)

-

They’re laughing like two schoolboys who’ve performed a good prank after they’ve left the crime scene. Sherlock can’t stop grinning, especially when he thinks of John (wonderful, amazing, unexpectedly interesting John) shooting a man to save him. It’s unheard of. It’s... it’s _even better than flying_ to have someone so unquestionably loyal to him for the first time.

The Chinese place serves delightful dim sum, just as Sherlock knew it would. He smirks when he hears John moaning with gratitude for the food in his belly. They exchange glances every now and again, only to burst into giggles or tease each other over nothing in particular.

It’s the perfect moment, staring at John and knowing that there’s nothing that the doctor would hide from him (and that the doctor doesn’t even care; is this what having a friend is like? He saves that thought for later, when he needs further contemplation.)

Sherlock slowly takes something out of his pocket and puts in on the table, next to the container of chopsticks.

It’s a pure white feather, taken from the building on the other side, hidden from Lestrade’s prying eyes (and for Sherlock’s alone.)

John pauses. His shoulders are tense but his face shows no surprise. Instead, he has a resigned smile.

“I figured you knew about this already,” he explains.

Sherlock doesn’t remove his gaze. “Why do you hide them?”

John looks down, hands clenched, but he still gives an answer.

“I can’t fly, Sherlock.”

The spoon he was holding splatters when it falls into his won ton soup. Sherlock doesn’t try to fix his expression, knows that he is betraying his shock.

“Psychosomatic then,” he proclaims tersely, “like your leg—”

“No, Sherlock,” John says gently, as if he is the one in need of comforting, “ever since I got them, I couldn’t quite figure it out. Flying, that is. Still can’t. Its fine, all fine,” John says quickly, when Sherlock’s gaze grows hard, “I’m used to it, so it wasn’t that hard to hide my wings. Actually makes things a lot easier. In the army, winged soldiers are easier targets for the enemy. Most people are too busy looking up for attacks to be watching their fronts when I snuck up on them.”

Sherlock says nothing, doesn’t know what to say. There is something growing in his chest and he thinks that... that it might be _respect_ and that’s something he hasn’t felt, ever, this strongly.

 _Appearing wingless makes people underestimate him. The jumpers, the short stature, the mild mannerisms... you would never suspect John Watson of being an efficient killer,_ he thinks.

John is shifting back in his chair (nervous, apprehensive), “So... we’re fine, then?”

For a moment, Sherlock almost forgets what the subject of their conversation was. He leans forward, “We’re more than fine, John...”

He doesn’t pause, doesn’t bother to keep it a secret.

“I can’t fly either.”

He wishes he could say that its over rated (like breathing) but it really isn’t. But at the sight of John’s smile, Sherlock doesn’t care.

-

Things begin to change, only, Sherlock doesn’t know it yet, doesn’t realize it until he sees bombs strapped onto his doctor, like the devil (he doesn’t believe in such things anymore) showing his hand of cards.

The yarders learn not to insult John in Sherlock’s presence, else their significant others might find out that they were cheating on them with a relative/stranger/dancer/insert-here or a seedy secret of theirs may end up in the internet. The more obtuse yarders get a warning in the form of a beating in an alley, when Sherlock pays his homeless network to target them.

When he is about to introduce John to Sebastian and he sees the disdain in Sebastian’s eyes at John’s back, Sherlock calls John his ‘best friend.’ The grateful look in John’s eyes is worth more than all of Sebastian’s humiliation (it gives Sherlock a warmth he hasn’t experienced before, that someone was glad to be called his friend.)

When John comes back from his job interview with a face of rejection, Sherlock deduces that he was turned away because of his apparent “naked” state. He quietly gets Mycroft to create trouble for the woman (Sarah, was it? Sherlock would make sure she couldn’t walk home safe, not if he could help it.)

Sherlock begins to learn the names of his homeless agents, instead of referring to them in his mind palace as girl number one or old man number forty nine. He takes more care to introduce them to John because he knows that John provides what medical services he can to the wingless.

It’s fascinating for Sherlock, watching those hands that could kill so easily, heal so many wingless lives with compassion. No one he has ever met has looked at a naked, at a wingless, like they were a human being.

(No one he has ever met has looked at _Sherlock_ like he was amazing, like he was _human._ And even though he’s positive he doesn’t have a heart, he does not deny that it feels good to have this.)

John does not reveal his wings in public but in 221B, he walks around with chest free of any of his jumpers. Only Sherlock can see how beautifully kept John Watson’s white wings are. It’s a secret he values (and hoards) for himself; that John Watson’s wings are for his eyes alone (and they will stay that way.)

He cannot stop looking at them, comparing them to his own black feathers. At night, when John is sleeping, sometimes Sherlock takes out the feather from a Study in Pink, traces the bristles with his fingers, thinks of how it might feel to trail his hands through John’s wings, if John would let him.

Would John moan and sigh if Sherlock stroked through the blanket of white? Would John ask Sherlock to keep going, would he beg for Sherlock’s touch?

Sherlock’s wings tremble in response.

They are healthier than they’ve ever been since he was eight.

-

Sherlock ends up being kidnapped by the Chinese smugglers and is shooting off deductions about the woman, General Shan (wings that are red dipped with black slits). She is growing agitated with him, threatens to shoot his companion (Molly who had popped by the flat to ask him to coffee... again, Molly who is crying while her light blue wings are being crushed by weights.)

They’re going to kill her. Sherlock’s mind begins to race for Molly is one of the few people he can tolerate and what would John say if Sherlock could not save her?

He becomes desperate, tries to buy time with more ludicrous lies, looks at every possible angle he can to save Molly and himself. Blackmail seems impossible; General Shan is becoming more erratic and illogical as time passes. Only possible route is to lead them to the real broach and then hope that one of the henchmen will be careless enough in their watch that Sherlock can escape his binds and free Molly...

He is about to tell them, when John rushes in, saying, “He’s not Sherlock Holmes, I am!”

It’s ridiculous enough to distract the henchmen. John shoots one of them in the head by surprise, while the other rushes at him and tackles him to the ground. There are more shouts. General Shan is glowering at Sherlock with pure hatred, raising her gun...

There is a shot.

A body falls.

It is not Sherlock’s.

-

“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock hisses, pacing back and forth in the living room once they’d arrived home. His wings are knocking over stacks of books and some glass vials from his experiments.

Amused, John gravitates towards the kitchen, puttering about to make some tea. His arm is in a sling, he was lucky that the bullet didn’t hit anything vital and that he had enough time to disarm General Shan with his other arm.

“Yes, a nice thank you for saving your life,” John replies mildly.

“You were almost shot!” He practically roars.

“I _was_ shot,” John indicates to his sling.

“You know what I mean!” Sherlock snarled, passing the armchairs in the living room towards the messy table where John had set the kettle. He has images passing through his head, of John bleeding on the ground at his feet and Sherlock being unable to help him.

John sets down his cup, does not stand down, “I did what I had to Sherlock. I couldn’t let you die.”

“Not at that cost,” he continues wildly, “never again—”

John touches his shoulder and Sherlock jumps. He didn’t realize how close John had gotten, didn’t properly appreciate the height difference between them. Peering down at John’s face and weary lines, he observes that he only has to lean down a few inches and he will be able to—no, stop. Don’t compute.

“Could it be that you care?” is the soft whisper.

Sherlock freezes.

There are a hundred different things he can say, but they are all jammed together in his mind, like paper stuck in the printer unable to be transcribed to something readable. He wants to say _are you an idiot,_ or _yes, of course I do,_ or _you make me feel insane, uneven, like I’m falling,_ or _you’re not allowed to leave me, don’t ever risk your life like that again._

And then, just like that, _oh,_ the answer.

Confused, John tries to ask what’s wrong. He wants to reply, but instead he steps away, walks up the stairs to his bedroom and shuts the door.

Caring is a weakness, a weakness that John possesses. If John continues to care for him, than John will get himself killed. Solution? Make John Watson stop caring.

-

Life at 221B becomes awkward. They act like people built by clockwork, answering every phrase with a curt yes or no. They avoid looking at each other directly. Sherlock is brisk with John at crime scenes until even Lestrade takes notice, begins asking John if everything is alright.

Sherlock will push John away, create distance between them. This will create resentment (but not too much, he doesn’t want to drive John away completely. He’s selfish enough to want to keep John in 221B forever.)

The pink phone comes in, providing the perfect distraction to channel all of his energy about John towards. He becomes focused on the case, as callous as possible. He dismisses John’s words, tries to ignore the look of pain on the doctor’s face. He thinks, instead of Moriarty, brilliant and entertaining Moriarty (and yet, a voice that sounds like John whispers to him, all those people who have died because Sherlock was not quick enough, not clever enough...)

No. He cannot think of that. This is necessary. This will make John stop caring. This will protect John.

-

It doesn’t work.

-

 _“I’ll burn the heart right out of you,”_ Moriarty says.

And Sherlock thinks, _John._

-

The decision to shoot the bomb is the hardest and easiest one that Sherlock has ever had to make. (Anyone who threatened John deserved to perish, in their exact same words, and it was worth seeing the look of shock on Moriarty’s face.)

Fire bursts out within several heartbeats. Sherlock barely has time to think when he leaps over to John, wrapping the smaller man in his arms and folds his big black wings over them both as a shield.

Having wings does not make Sherlock Holmes a guardian angel, not in the way that John Watson is his. But he thinks, that if could choose one last thing to do before he dies, that he would choose to protect his John every single time.

( _I’d be lost without my blogger.)_

There is pain in his back, he is burning, but he will not let the fire touch his heart.

-

In his dreams, he flies again and John is flying next to him. The fire rages down below them, all of London, lighting up the grey city in eerie hues of orange and red.

Together, they swoop in and stop it all.

-

Sherlock wakes up in a hospital bed. Mycroft is sitting down in a chair next to him, surveying him with a hard expression, but the lax grip on his umbrella betrays his brother’s relief. To the side, Mycroft’s assistant is tapping on her blackberry and hands him a cup of water while texting a message of some sort (probably involving taking over America or something involving world domination).

He does not take it, instead shouting, “Where’s John? The fire, did it get him? Where’s John, Mycroft? Where have you put him?”

His brother, for once, appears uncomfortable, almost _apologetic_ (but that’s impossible, Mycroft never looks like that, why is he staring at Sherlock as if he’s a ticking time bomb, as if he’s lost someone dear? Does that mean...? No...)

Some of his despair must show for Mycroft shakes his head quickly, “Doctor Watson is in perfect health, for the most part, Sherlock. It was you who sustained the most damage. You were in critical condition and you would have lost your life if not for...”

The uncharacteristic pause makes Sherlock tense. “Then if John is fine, where is he? Why isn’t he here?” He searches the room for any signs of his flatmate but finds nothing but the standard evidence of the presence of hospital staff. Fear begins to bubble in his chest. He’s driven John too far. John hates him now for being unable to save him from Moriarty. John has moved away. John is gone, gone, gone...

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says sharply, “before you jump to conclusions... perhaps you’d like to take the time to properly... _observe.”_

This almost makes Sherlock sneer at him. He’s always observing, doesn’t Mycroft know that? This is more important, he needs to find John, needs to beg him to... (to what? Stay? For forgiveness? What variables can Sherlock take advantage of to keep the doctor with him?)

He tries to get up, stares down at the tubes connecting his veins to packages of nutrients and plasma and then the white feathers from his wings...

Everything stops.

He feels his face lose colour while Mycroft begins to explain things in a clinical and detached manner, avoiding his accusing gaze. But Sherlock can’t hear anything that Mycroft says (“...burned off in the blast... you were in critical condition... only one way to save you... insisted in volunteering...”), only stares at the wings attached to his back... _white wings..._

Sherlock rushes forward, grabs Mycroft by his collar and snarls, “ _Where is he?”_

 _Let him be alive,_ (the only way to live after having one’s wings ripped away is to undergo an operation to replace the wings), _let him be alive,_ (the only donors that will have any success are living donors, the dead donor wings crumble away), _let him be alive,_ (less than 40% chance of surviving loss of wings by surgical input if one is a living donor.)

Mycroft can hardly choke out a room number before his PA does it for him.

Sherlock rips the tubes from his arms and is rushing out the doors in an instant.

-

He nearly knocks the doors down when he finds the correct room. For a moment, he fears that he won’t find the doctor there, only strangers or an empty space. But he’s relieved (only slightly, the anger replaces it easily) to see John sitting up on the bed, staring out the window, and now at Sherlock, wide-eyed.

Instantly, he is glowering down at his friend after taking two large steps to cross the distance between them.

“Let me see them,” he says harshly.

John barely has time to blink, “What... Sherlock—”

He rips the shirt off of him, tearing away the buttons and ignoring John’s protests that it was one of his most comfortable shirts and a gift from Harry. When the offending article of clothing is off, Sherlock turns John around and is faced with the evidence.

Two long scars, both stretching down from the top of John’s collar bones down two thirds of his back. They are red and screaming lines across pale skin. The scars are wide, rigid with tiny diagonal marks where the flesh has been sewn back together.

Sherlock stares for the longest time, fingers tracing down the reddened and raw stitches (all done for him, where two pairs of beautiful white wings used to be) and is unable to conceal a choked sob.

“ _Why?”_ He screams, gripping John’s arms.

John is silent.

“Damn it, John Watson, tell me now, why you would risk your life for me, why you would give up your wings—?”

“ _You were going to die!”_ The soldier replies in equal volume. His eyes are devastated, like he has cried in his sleep.

Yes, he has, Sherlock deduces, but why? Why would John be crying over him? Why does John care? Why does he keep risking his life—his wings—for Sherlock? Observe. Gather facts. The emotion in John’s voice, the way that John’s gaze is directed to him automatically when he enters a room, the way that John is clutching on to him as if he were— _oh._

_Oh._

But John is still speaking.

“I couldn’t just let you die,” his eyes are wild and Sherlock desperately wants him to stop talking so that he can explain his own feelings, but John continues, “Are you asking me to live in a world without you, Sherlock?” No, he tries to say, yet there can be no interruption, “Because that is as cruel as how you’ve been treating me these past few weeks. I just, I can’t, I refuse to go back to the way things were before I met you. I _can’t do that—”_

Sherlock slams their lips together, presses their bodies close and covers them both with his wings (John’s wings.) They slip downwards, onto the floor, where Sherlock runs his hands down John’s back, John’s scars (Sherlock’s scars.)

It is the greatest high, better than flying, than drugs, than solving cases.

-

**Interlude... Before Sherlock woke**

**-**

“He’s going to die, Mr. Holmes. The wings were burned completely when the bomb went off. We had to remove the remnants of flesh out of his back to prevent infection but without his wings... he won’t survive,” the nameless doctor explains.

“Then get him a donor—”

“Impossible. The list is too short; the closest living donor is in a different country. People don’t simply give up their wings for strangers when there’s a high possibility of death involved in the procedure,” the doctor explains, though Mycroft knows this, all of this already. The doctor doesn’t mention the social ramifications of becoming wingless, for which Mycroft is grateful. At least this doctor isn’t a complete imbecile.

“That’s not good enough. Find one without whatever means necessary,” Mycroft is considering bribery or kidnap. There must be something. Anything is possible.

“Not enough time. It took too long to send your brother to the proper health care facility. There’s hardly any time left. This is the critical hour for surgery. If we don’t find a proper donor by the hour, your brother will...”

Mycroft cannot consider the possibility. Regret is flashing through him in different images. The Carl Powers Case. Cutting off correspondence when he went to university without Sherlock. The drugs. But not this, he couldn’t fail Sherlock here—

“I’ll do it.”

They both turn their heads towards the former soldier who was allowed to sit in on the meeting. John Watson has his hands crossed and is unaffected by their incredulous gazes.

“Mr. Watson...” the doctor says, “You’re wingless, you can’t possibly—”

Watson takes off his jacket and reveals his wings (Mycroft is not surprised, the records are consistent with this observation) and the doctor’s jaws drop at their pure white colour.

At the same time Mycroft says, “This is a life-changing decision. I can’t let you do this for my brother, he would never forgive me—”

“I’m sure,” the soldier replies.

“But _why?”_

He can’t comprehend how anyone can be this good, this saintly. It’s illogical. It makes no sense.

The soldier shrugs, “Sherlock loves his wings. He doesn’t necessarily act like he does, but if you’d notice how many hours a day he spends cleaning them...”

Mycroft makes an impatient noise, “Please, John, I think we both know that isn’t your real reason.”

John smiles sadly at him, “I was one of the unlucky few who were just born wingless, you know,” yes, he does, it was in one of the reports Anthea handed him about the doctor when they were investigating his background and evaluating if his presence would be a helpful remedy to Sherlock’s behavior, “until I was sixteen. Then my mother drugged me and had me undergo an operation. She gave up her wings for me and she didn’t survive the procedure. But she left me a letter, you see, explaining her reasons. She wanted me to have a good life, to go to medical school just as I wanted to.

“She wrote, _John, I know you won’t be able to understand it now, but sometimes giving up your wings, your life, for someone you love if worth everything. You can’t regret a decision like that... I don’t._ So, like my mum, I don’t regret this. Sherlock is going to fly again someday, and I want to, _no,_ I _will_ be there when that happens.”

 _I love him,_ is that Mycroft thinks the soldier will say next, but he does not. He nods towards the other doctor with them, put his coat back on to conceal the white feathery appendages underneath.

But Mycroft can still see them, not the white wings that John allowed him to glimpse for a few precious minutes, but another set of wings, ones made of light that no one else can see.

And for a heartbeat, Mycroft considers believing in angels.

-

**Epilogue... of wings and scars**

**-**

“You ready?” John stands next to him, grinning broadly as if it were Christmas morning.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and reaches for his partner’s wrist, pulling him to his chest and then settles his hands to a comfortable position around John’s waist. He leans in, breathing in the scent of shampoo in his soldier’s blond hair.

“R-right,” John replies shakily, when Sherlock blows playfully against his ear, “I suppose you are.”

(He remembers the previous night, the detective kissing every centimetre of skin that his scars touched. He remembers how he gasped at the light touch of lips, the feel of intense scrutiny on every wound that marred his body, the look of adoration in Sherlock’s eyes, so deep, so burning that he drowned in it—

“These are mine,” Sherlock whispers huskily, licking the red marks. “Say it, John, these scars are all mine, all for me, you are mine...”

He gasps, feeling close, so close and gasping, _yes, yes, yes, always for you, always._

They climax together.)

“Don’t drop me now,” John jokes.

He gets a scoff in reply, “Never.”

The white wings unfurl.

They fly.

-

**A scene before**

**-**

“You could try, you know,” John says after they make love, when they are lying together in bed.

Sherlock’s arms tighten around him, his reply is muffled.

“Sorry, what?”

The consulting detective wrinkles his nose, “I _said,_ I wouldn’t want to try unless you were there with me,” he thinks of the dream he had, that night in the hospital, where John was in the air with him.

John gets a ridiculous grin on his head and he leans back against Sherlock, “I will be. If you carry me when you go up there.”

Sherlock feels his throat go dry, and he says, “Of course. I’d take you anywhere you wanted to go, John Watson.”

He receive a gentle kiss against his neck as his answer.

-

To be wingless is to be nobody, he used to think.

He was wrong.

**Author's Note:**

> There are three extra scenes available on tumblr to read.
> 
> -A short drabble/prequel of John's story  
> -A scene in the hospital  
> -A what-if-Reichenbach-happened drabble
> 
> You can find links to them and additional fanart to this oneshot [ here](http://youlighttheskyfanfiction.tumblr.com/post/36596554212/sherlock-fic-not-the-hands-that-kill-masterpost)


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